


Cyclical

by hashtagartistlife



Category: Bleach
Genre: F/M, Just Roll With It, i have no idea wtf i'm doing with this fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-22 14:15:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6082452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hashtagartistlife/pseuds/hashtagartistlife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a peculiar twist of fate, Rukia dies, but Ichigo endures. A century later, she’s the reincarnated headstrong human teenager and he’s the long-suffering shinigami who sort-of-accidentally may have transferred his powers to her. </p><p>Some things are different. Some things are the same.</p><p>And some things, it seems, will never ever change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Incidence

**Author's Note:**

> I have no business throwing myself into yet another weird Ichiruki-Bleach-AU thing, but lately I’ve realised that I probably worry about my writing way too much which is why I never get anything longer than a oneshot done. In the interests of actually learning to write a multichaptered fic, I’ve decided I‘m going to write this one really lightheartedly, no worrying about whether each turn of phrase is exactly right allowed. As a consequence, it might be kinda shit. But, uh, do feel free to give it a go anyway. 
> 
> Also, the summary and the first chapter make it look kinda bleak but dw it’s going to be quite lighthearted. I think. Maybe. Look I have no idea where this is going ok just have it

 

*

 

I’m going to kill the person who first came up with the concept of _soul mates._

All that bullshit about being mentally connected? _Lies._ All that crap about taking one look at them and something in you clicking, you being made _whole_ — quite frankly, a pile of horseshit. All that ‘through every life, in whatever form, I’ll know you’ reincarnation bull — fucking hell. I want my money back.

Don’t believe everything you read in books, kids. You think you’ll recognise the love of your life if she gets cut down in front of you by your nemesis and reincarnated into the world you literally _just_ abandoned to be with her?

You’re fucking wrong.

 

*

 

_Soul Society, Captain’s Quarters, Eighth Division, 2103 AD_

 

“We found her.”

It’s the best thing Kurosaki Ichigo has heard in a century. The statement is short, brusque and without context, but even so, he knows exactly what it means. There is only one person about whom Renji Abarai would have come to him for, eyes ablaze with an intensity he knows all too well himself.

“Show me,” he says, kind of unable to believe his luck— but then again, if the universe was any kind of fair, it was due to show him _some_ mercy sometime in the next decade.

It’s just, you know, the universe has never really been all that _fair_ before.

But who was he to look a gift horse in the mouth? Urahara had said it would be nigh-on impossible to find her again, after he managed to anchor her soul together and send it off into the cycle of reincarnation instead of letting it drift apart like it would have without the intervention. He’d saved her, he’d said, or what he could of her, anyway; but Kurosaki-san shouldn’t expect her to be exactly like the Rukia Kuchiki he knows— had known. Actually, on second thoughts, Kurosaki-san shouldn’t expect to find her again at all, period. Rukia Kuchiki, as he’d known her, was gone.

What was the point then, he had raged, what was the point of sending her soul into the reincarnation cycle anyway if it wouldn’t result in _her_? If _Rukia Kuchiki_ was gone and this soul was going to inhabit a new body and grow up to be a stranger—this, this was no solution at all, and Rukia was still _dead_. What was the point?

But even as he’d raged, he’d _felt it_ — cruelly, a voice in his head was whispering that _this was better than nothing_. Something of her was out there, something of her warmth, her light, her goodness, and if he could just find her again, even if it _wasn’t exactly her_ —

He’d refused to let that whispering voice bloom into anything resembling hope, but some part of him must have agreed, because instead of letting his Hollow run rampant, instead of running away into the woods and becoming a hermit, instead of falling on his own sword and following her into the cycle like he’d wanted to, he’d _endured_. He slaughtered Ywhach; decimated the Sternritters; accepted the Captaincy the Gotei-13 offered him; _if_ he was going to find her (he still refused to call the strange lightness in his chest _hope_ ), Soul Society, with all its connections and spells and Kurotsuchi Mayuri’s twisted idea of _science_ , would be the best place to start.

He’d forgotten this was _Soul Society_ they were talking about. The place that apparently has no organisational structure worth mentioning, despite being entrusted with the afterlife of every single person that had ever existed on the planet. Fuck, people had to band together in weird nuclear second families just to stay alive in the outskirts of the place. Their soul-finding program was beyond _shit._

The only thing shittier than Soul Society’s structure (or lack thereof) had been his own thought processes when he convinced himself that joining them would be the most efficient way of finding Kuchiki Rukia.

It took them _decades._ He and Renji, and covertly Byakuya, slaved over reconnaissance and reiatsu detection and buttering up Kurotsuchi Mayuri in between their duties as Captains and rebuilding the Gotei-13. Ichigo even learned freaking _kido_ , to help him better understand the nuances of controlling, manipulating and detecting reiatsu. He’d hoped the Gotei-13 would be enthusiastic in offering their help; after all, Rukia was nakama, and they _fucking owed her_ after their disastrous attempts to execute her so many years ago. And if they thought their debt to her repaid by promoting her to Vice-Captain and allowing her to die in the line of duty, then they certainly fucking owed _him_ for saving the entire damn world multiple times.

No such luck. Captain-Commander Ise drove a hard bargain.

“I’m sorry, Kurosaki-san,” she’d said, pushing her glasses up her nose in a way that was infuriatingly reminiscent of Ishida, “it’s not as though I don’t wish to help you—after all, I know firsthand how much of a help you were to us— but there are some laws that not even I can violate. Laws, you understand, like the spring turning to summer and fire being hot.”

She’d softened her gaze at the look in his eyes. “I apologise. I wish there was some way to help. But interfering with the reincarnation cycle is currently impossible, even for us shinigami, and locating where and when Kuchiki-san will be reincarnated would be like trying to count the number of spirit particles in the world. Could be done, technically, with an infinite amount of time and manpower, but ultimately futile.”

So. He could count on no help from that quarter. Urahara had had similar answers for him. So it had just been him and Renji, and occasionally, quietly Byakuya, and Hanatarou had offered what little he could, and he’s sure that had he still been alive, Ukitake Juushirou would have backed him up. But he’s not, and it had been a long, lonely, quiet struggle between him and two other Captains and a handful of their acquaintances to find the girl who once drew them all together.

And now Renji was here, telling him that the struggle may be over.

“Show me,” he repeats, eyes slowly lighting up with the same intensity (he still won’t call it hope, he won’t, he won’t, but he can’t deny the feeling in his chest is spreading, his whole body getting lighter, like he’ll be able to float away) he sees in his fellow Captain’s gaze. Renji nods tightly, once; a hell butterfly materialises out of nowhere (Ichigo still hasn’t got the hang of calling on those damned things) and the two of them take after it in _shunpo._

It leads them to the barracks of the sixth division; Kuchiki Byakuya is there, waiting, not a hair out of place, but his expression is the wildest Ichigo has ever seen it in their years of acquaintance. “I have contacted the Captain-Commander,” he snaps out, voice as restrained as ever, but Ichigo can hear the cracks in it and he’s as shaken about this as they are— “we are cleared for a living-world visit. Observation _only._ ”

He looks at them with those eyes again, the exact same twilight shade as hers despite their lack of a blood relation. “The Captain-Commander informs me that this will be the last time she grants us leeway in relation to this particular… matter. She can’t have three of her Captains up and running out on a whim every decade, she says.” He swallows, and Ichigo wants to shout, because that’s _bullshit_ — you’d think with the amount of times he’s saved the world from annihilation bureaucracy might cut him a break—but that’s for when he gets back, because maybe after this trip he won’t need to shirk on his duties to try to find her anymore. “So make it count,” Byakuya finishes quietly, and the other two nod, resolute.

They open up a senkaimon, and set off at a run. 

He is expecting them to come out over Karakura Town; the sleepy little city of grey apartments and brown pavement is familiar to him, even after a hundred years, so when the senkaimon opens and deposits them over a _beach_ , of all things, all pristine white sand and rolling waves of aquamarine, he’s more than a little confused.

“Wha—what the hell is _this_ , Renji?” he hisses, looking around, taking stock—the weather is _beautiful_ in a way that it has never been in his living memory, the sun so hot that he imagines he can feel it prickling on his own skin despite the fact that he was a ghost. All his father’s lectures about skin cancer and sunscreen come back to him in full-force. He’s never had any reason to take them to heart, but here, under this foreign sun blazing in the sky above them, he kind of understands Isshin’s concern. “Where are we?!”

“Sydney, Eastern Coast of Australia,” Renji snaps, and Ichigo stares at his friend, dumbfounded.

“ _Australia?!_ ” he croaks, incredulous, “Rukia’s in _Australia?!_ ” Shit. He hadn’t meant to say that—it had slipped out of him before he could stop it, because it’s not _Rukia_ they’re looking for, not anymore, her reincarnation _won’t be her_ —but Renji doesn’t seem to notice his slip-up, scanning the beach with his eyes screwed up against the blinding light. Byakuya is doing the same, he notices, just with a more dignified expression (because _of course_ ), and Ichigo finally decides to follow suit rather sheepishly.

The beach is crowded—not overly so, not enough for it to become unpleasant, but enough for the lifeguards to be on high alert. There are families with kids, and absently Ichigo wonders what time of the year it was in the living world. School holidays? A weekend? He’s lost track, and he thinks maybe that that disconnect from the living world should frighten him— but no. He was a shinigami now, through and through. It was the choice he’d made when he’d decided to stay with _her_.

Too bad fate decided to be a bitch and pull her from him no less than a week after he’d made that choice.

A squealing kid, no more than five years old, runs wildly across his field of vision and abruptly Ichigo realizes that he has _no fucking clue_ how he’s supposed to go about looking for her.

“What… exactly are we doing here?” he mutters to his companions, and both of them tear their eyes away from their search briefly to look at him as though he’d gone insane.

“I mean,” he defends hastily, “how are we supposed to find her anyway? How are we supposed to know? Where did we even get this information from in the first place?”

“You’re only now thinking to ask that?” Renji rolls his eyes and goes back to scanning. “Urahara called us in. You know he’s been attempting to help us on this, trying to find a way to track souls through the reincarnation cycle. It’s not concrete, but he _thinks_ he’s figured out a way to tell _when_ souls are reincarnated. Something about them breaching the barrier between the spirit world and the living world as they transition from one to another. And he _thinks_ Rukia’s soul was reincarnated around five years ago.”

“So we’re looking for a five-year-old _kid?_ ” Ichigo looks around at the beach full of anklebiters and feels kind of faint. Neither of his companions seem perturbed by this.

“Then why the hell are we in _Australia?_ ” he continues, even as his eyes slide over potential five-year-olds. _That one’s blonde, that one’s got green eyes, wait, how the hell do we even know the reincarnated kid will look like Rukia? What if she looks completely different?_

Renji scoffs. “Because that’s where Urahara told us to go, moron. He said he managed to keep track of her soul for as long as possible before he lost the trail, and it wound up somewhere around here. Now are you gonna shut up and look for her?”

He does, despite the myriad questions on the tip of his tongue. He should have been elated, he knew, but none of this seems quite real, the three of them on the east coast of fucking _Australia_ scanning the beach for the five-year-old vessel of their friend’s reincarnated soul. Honestly, he’s not sure what the other two are basing their search on, since they had no guarantees that Rukia Kuchiki reincarnated would look anything like she had done in her past life. For all they knew, that little boy at his feet building what looks like an atrocious sand sculpture of Admiral Seaweed was her reincarnated self.

Then, three syllables catch at his ears, and he whips around like lightning to look for its source.

 _“Lu—ci—a—“_ it had sounded like, and it’s close enough to _Rukia_ that his heart stutters in his chest. He searches, searches, his amber-bright eyes darting across the sand, before he identifies a tall blonde woman as the speaker and his gaze follows hers to a tiny, dark-haired figure dipping her toes into the water.

It feels like his stomach drops and bottoms out; his breath is coming erratically and his heart—god, his heart is beating like it hasn’t beaten in a hundred years and is determined to make up for lost time. There’s sweat in his palms (wildly, he hears her voice in his head, clearer than ever, chastising him that clammy hands were _gross_ ) and he wants to tell his companions about his findings but his vocal cords don’t seem to want to obey him. He’s _frozen_ , and he should get closer to this girl, sense out her reiatsu, _actually see her face_ —but he can’t, he can’t, it’s too much after one hundred years, he can’t deal with _this._

“Is that—no way…” comes Renji’s hushed, almost reverent voice beside him, and it’s Byakuya that acts, closing his eyes and visualising the spirit ribbons of everyone on the beach. Hundreds of white streamers flare up around them, but the three of them have eyes only for the tiny girl playing at the edge of the sea, whose ribbon is —

“…white?” Byakuya says, opening his eyes again, sounding not disappointed but quizzical, almost like she was a puzzle he had failed to put together. “This… cannot be,” he says, and moves closer to the girl without any warning. Renji and Ichigo yelp and scramble after him.

They stop in front of the girl, hovering over the surf, and she looks up—not at them, but at the sound of the blonde woman’s voice. The three of them start—her face is achingly familiar, especially to Renji, who has grown up with that face leading his pack. The blue-violet eyes have remained the same, as has that glossy, raven’s-wing hair and even that endearing strand of it down the middle of her face. There is no denying that the girl in front of them looks like a five-year-old Kuchiki Rukia.

But her spirit ribbon is white. Frowning, Byakuya tries the visualisation again, then Renji, then Ichigo, but no matter how many times the white strands shoot up, hers remains resolutely, stubbornly white.

The three ribbons that flutter around the shinigami are a deep, blood red.

“But it’s _her!”_ Renji insists, swiveling around to keep her face in sight— she’s stood up, now, and is walking back to the blonde woman who’s called her name— “it’s her, I know it, I’d know her _anywhere_ , I swear to god, that’s Rukia _right there_ —“

“It does seem… odd,” Byakuya agrees, a little hesitantly, and he looks to Ichigo for input. 

Ichigo closes his eyes, and tentatively feels for her reiatsu. This will put all doubts to rest— this is what will determine whether the girl in front of them is truly Rukia reincarnated, or simply someone who looks remarkably like her. It’s been a hundred years, but there is no way he has forgotten what her reiatsu feels like. It resonates with his, polar opposite and yet exactly the same; it was _her_ reiatsu, after all, that had drawn out _his_ dormant one to the surface.

Except he senses nothing. He reaches out, tendrils of his power brushing against the girl, but there is nothing there. The spirit ribbon is white, and the girl isn’t gifted in the least. The warmth he’d always felt in her presence does not come.

She has no reiryoku.

Something in him crumbles at the realisation; bitterly, he understands that despite all his efforts to the contrary, the thing that had been sustaining him for all these years really _had_ been hope. Now that the lightness in his chest is gone, something heavy settles in its place; he feels that perhaps being dragged down to the bottom of the ocean by its weight is not a bad way to go.

Renji sees the expression on his face change and understands what it means.

“ _Bullshit,_ ” he hisses, and grabs Ichigo by the collar— “that’s _her,_ I’m telling you, it’s got to be her, you don’t know what she looked like when she was young, it’s her—“

“Can you sense her reiatsu?” he counters dully; once, he might have been angry at the way Renji is questioning his ability to know her, but that was long ago and far away. “That might be the body that her reincarnated soul has settled into, I’ll give you that, but that’s no longer _Rukia._ Rukia’s not here, Renji. She hasn’t been anywhere for a long, long time.”

“Fuck you,” Renji says, but lets him go; what else could he do? He sensed it, and so did Byakuya: no reiatsu, no reiryoku to speak of, a white spirit ribbon.

 _I’ve saved what little of Kuchiki-san I could_ , Urahara had said. _But I’m not sure it was enough._

Renji closes his eyes in defeat. The three of them stand silent, the surf loud in their ears.

“Lucia,” the blonde woman calls again, a pretty smile curving her lips, and the child runs up to her, calling her _mama_. “Lucia, darling, come back from the ocean, there’s a good girl; don’t go in too deep, stay close to the shore…”

 _Lucia_ , she’s called, and the sound of her name triggers an ache in Ichigo’s chest; _Lucia_ , not Rukia. Even her name is representative of what she is to them; close enough to Rukia to build up their hopes, but different enough to tear them all back down brutally to the ground. _Lucia_ , not Rukia, is the culmination of a hundred years of guilt and worry and hope—the anticlimactic finale to a search that had ended before it had begun.

“Lucia,” Ichigo whispers, and it tastes like ash on his tongue.

“… We return to the Seireitei immediately,” Byakuya says, voice clipped and cold and low, something like fury whipping through the words. “We begin anew. I will talk to the shopkeeper personally as to where his sensing devices may have made an error. Kurosaki, Abarai, follow me.”

Neither of them remind him that technically they are no longer under his command. They turn around obediently, a senkaimon opening up behind them; they stride after him in silence. The girl does not turn her head after them in some display of recognition or stirring spiritual power. She laughs once, high and pure, and her eyes remain locked on the woman she calls _mama_. Only the pitiless sun burning in the blue sky sees them go.

 


	2. Co-Incidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucia's never quite felt like she's fitted into this world. 
> 
> Of course, seeing ghosts might have something to do with that.

*

 

I have never felt that this world was for me.

Like a puzzle piece from the wrong set, sitting askew. Not quite different enough to merit relocation, but different enough for it to be uncomfortable where I am. Something _other_ running through my veins, foreign and unknown, making me restless, constantly whispering that _this is not you, this life is not yours, this is not what you are meant to be doing_ —

Of course, seeing ghosts probably means I get this feeling a lot more than is usual.

Mother tries not to let it worry her. “Everyone feels that way to a certain extent, darling,” she says, but she doesn’t _understand_ — how could she? She is not the one who sees frost in her dreams and white in her head and feels the phantom weight of a sword she’s certain she’s never held in her life in her hand. And even though she does her best to put a brave face on things, I think she feels it too. Sometimes, I catch her looking at me out of the corner of my eye—brows pulled low, lips pursed—like I am a puzzle she’s yet to grasp the trick to.

I want to tell her that if I am a puzzle, then I’m yet to work out the trick myself.

Tiffany, on the other hand, seems to think it a past life sort of thing. Her theory is that when we are born— _reincarnated_ , because she is the kind of person who believes in that sort of thing— there is a whole, fully-formed persona of our previous life nestled within our bodies. At first our past persona is confused — as one would be, having gone from _fully functional adult_ to _helpless baby_ in the blink of an eye – but then they begin to adapt, to settle. To fade.

Of course, they put up a fight. When we are children, it doesn’t bother us so much, since children are incredibly flexible and good at reconciling the absurd with the commonplace. When we become adults, with fully formed personas ourselves, the past persona finally fades away to be replaced by the newer version. But it causes the most problems for us during our adolescence, when we are _forming_ our personas. When we’re still unsure of who we are and who we want to be. That’s when they step in and do their best to confuse you, make you vibrate and yearn for something that you’ve never known and aren’t sure you ever _will_ know, but are so _certain_ about. There is no other explanation for that wild, reckless certainty you have flowing through your veins during your teenage years, says Tiff.

Sometimes at night, when my dreams get too cold and the frost gets too real and I wake up in a shiver _despite it being the middle of summer,_ I almost believe her.

But that’s ridiculous, right?

 

*

 

She grows up in an endless cycle of mediums and psychiatrists.

If the two occupations seem contradicting, Lucia Greenwood has never paid much heed. Her _life_ is a contradiction. A small-statured Japanese girl, all black hair and blue eyes so dark as to be seen black in some lights, adopted at three months by an Australian couple, all sunny blonde hair and bottle-green gazes. A tiny slip of a girl, delicate as a spun-glass sculpture, who is also the best football player on their school team. A girl whose best subject is _science_ (physics, in particular), not especially religiously inclined, who saw ghosts.

(It is the last contradiction that has earned her the rotating schedule of psychiatrists and mediums in her life.)

She hadn’t always been able to do it; that ability had come later, had crept and seeped into her life without a clear start date, much like learning how to walk and talk. There had been signs, maybe; fleeting glimpses of movement out of the corner of her eyes, whispers of unfamiliar voices in her ears, a cold brush of ghostly fingertips on the nape of her neck; but nothing concrete, nothing to suggest she had been anything apart from absolutely ordinary. Until, much like learning how to walk and talk, she had woken up one morning and the ability had just been _there_.

Lucia still remembers it like it was yesterday. She had been seven years old. They had been accompanying her father on one of his many business trips to Japan, and she and her mother had been out roaming the streets, enjoying the spring warmth.

And then she’d seen _him._

“Mama! He’s _bleeding!”_ she’d said, almost jumping headlong into oncoming traffic in an attempt to get to the bloody boy on the opposite pavement. “He’s _bleeding_ , mama, we have to take him to the hospital—”

Eleanor Greenwood almost has a heart attack. She grabs her wayward daughter by the arm and yanks her back, pulling her to the safety of her arms. _“Lucia!_ What are you _doing?_ You _do not jump into the road like that,_ missy!”

Lucia’d squirmed in her arms. “But mama! He’s bleeding, we have to help him, look—“

She’d pointed to where the boy stood, pale and sad, seemingly unconcerned with the large amount of blood pouring down his head, and read nothing but confusion in her mother’s unfocused gaze.

“Darling? Who are you talking about? There’s no-one there.”

“There _is,_ ” she’d insisted; she kept her finger pointed to the boy, but her mother turned her puzzled sights on her instead.

“Who is?” she’d asked, and that was when Lucia first realized that something in her world had been _shifted_ —and that her mother somehow could not see what was plain as day to her.

“A boy—a little taller than me—on the pavement opposite-- _there,_ mama, you really can’t see him--?”

“No, sweetheart,” Eleanor had answered, and that had been that.

Lucia sees her first psychiatrist two days afterwards.

But they can’t help her, none of them can; the psychiatrist herself has a ghost hovering over her shoulder, an old man, stoop-shouldered and squinty-eyed. Lucia tells her so, and the psychiatrist had paled and refused a second booking. Then they had sought out a spiritual medium; unfortunately, the first one they encountered had been a fraud, and the session ended with him trying to _recruit_ her.

(She and her parents had politely declined.)

It hadn’t gotten better from there. With every new psychiatrist, every new spiritual medium, Lucia had become more and more of a puzzle; more and more clearly _out of the ordinary_. She sometimes wonders if this is why she had always had so much trouble making friends— if her habit of occasionally staring into what others deemed empty space or frequent absences for yet another specialist had unnerved potential companions.

But if she’s being honest with herself, she’s never been able to easily befriend others, even before the advent of her supernatural abilities.

Still, seeing ghosts isn’t all terrible—they keep her company when no-one else will, when the other children shun her for talking to thin air or knowing things about them that she shouldn’t. At first, she tries to distance herself somewhat from her powers, but she soon finds she cannot help but want to lend a hand to the lost souls who gravitate towards her, even if she can’t quite figure out _how_. All she knows is that they have a _sadness_ in their eyes that she can’t bear seeing, and that she somehow feels _responsible_ for them. But there’s precious little that a child can do, and through all the years of mediums and psychiatrists Lucia has never met anyone else who can see ghosts like she does. So she can only offer her words and company, and bury her aching sense of _inadequacy_ under a moon-bright smile.

And so her life goes—full of trips to Japan and beaches and _ghosts_ , wherever she is. Lucia thinks sometimes that she should maybe be a _little_ more worried that she's practically a magnet for the spirits of the dead, but they have long since become integrated into her daily routine and most days she doesn’t even register the weirdness of conversing with someone who is semi-transparent and dead two years. If anything, it’s the relatively _normal_ parts of her life that are giving her trouble; things like making friends, keeping on top of homework, and, oh, _puberty_.

“But mum—“ she protests, and is promptly cut off by a frazzled Eleanor, attempting to juggle a phone, a kitchen knife, and a boiling stove at the same time.

“No, darling, and that’s final,” she says, her tone stern but her expression nothing short of panicked. The doorbell rings. “Would you mind getting that for me, dearest?”

Lucia hops off the counter and patters over to the door, which opens to reveal a postman with a parcel from her father. “Uh, sorry, kid, but you gotta be over twelve to sign for parcels, is anyone else home—“

“I’m _fourteen!_ ” Lucia snaps, before snatching the electronic mail register from him and signing her name with a flourish. She shuts the door in the mailman’s bewildered face before he can say anything else, and couriers the parcels over to the kitchen to plunk them down in front of her mother.

“See, mama? The mailman thought I was under twelve. _Twelve._ Have you _seen_ basketballers? They’re all six foot clear, I’m _sure_ it’ll help me too—“

“Darling, you already play three sports, I’m not about to let you play a fourth. If you’re so worried about your height, why don’t you just go to sleep earlier?”

“I’m trying!” Lucia bursts out, exasperated. “I’m _trying_ , mama, but I’m telling you, there’s something wrong with our A/C, I don’t know why my room is so _cold_ all the time—“

“Lucia, we’ve had the technician over twice now and he insists there’s nothing wrong with the climate control in your room. It’s the middle of _summer_ , sweetheart. How on earth could your room be _cold_?”

“I don’t know, mama, but it’s definitely not my fault I’m not getting enough sleep.” She crosses her arms and settles her face into a pout, and Eleanor sighs and puts down the phone.

“Do you think it could have anything to do with your powers?” she asks, and Lucia bites her lip.

“N-no,” she says; a small part of her feels guilty about the deception, but she consoles herself with the fact that she’s not _technically_ lying. Sure, she’s not telling her parents the whole truth about her restless nights; but she’s had _enough_ of psychiatrists and mediums, and she can’t see how her dreams could have any connection with her seeing the dead. In light of her dire lack of height, recurring dreams about snow and ice hardly seem like a developmental emergency. They were probably nothing important; they’d go away eventually if left well alone.

She is, of course, as she will find out several years later, _wrong_.

 

*

 

_3 years later, Sydney, Eastern Suburbs_

_2115 AD_

Lucia Greenwood has seen some _shit_ in her life, not the least of them being, oh, _dead people_ , but _this_ , she thinks, might just take the damn cake.

“What the actual _hell_ —“ is about as far as she gets, before the monstrous white _thing_ that had erupted out the side of the shopping mall opens its mouth and lets out a bloodcurdling screech. Every drop of blood in her body _chills_ ; Lucia claps her hands over her ears and falls to her knees, gasping for breath. She feels like her bones have been dipped in ice water; the sound is piercing, _terrifying_. It grasps at something deep-rooted and instinctive within her and pulls it out to the forefront of her mind. It’s the kind of sound that reminds her why humanity has always been afraid of the dark. It’s the kind of sound that tells her: _run._

“Lucia? _Lucia!_ Are you ok?” she hears from beside her, and Lucia looks up to find her best friend Tiffany pulling on her arm, her face sheet-white. “What’s wrong?! C’mon, let’s get out of the way, it could be dangerous here—“

Lucia wants to shake her head, wants to tell her that this is not the time to be _getting out of the way_ at a leisurely pace; they need to _run_ , as far away from here as possible, but her body won’t comply. Tiffany drags her to her feet again but Lucia’s unsteady; her legs are shaking and she collapses again almost as soon as she manages to stand back up.

“Tiff—we gotta—you gotta—“

“Lucia, what are you—“

She finally manages to get her vocal cords to work properly, and she yanks Tiffany’s face down to her level. There is a touch of apprehension in her friend’s wide blue eyes, and Lucia thinks, _good_.

“Run,” she rasps, just before the creature lets out another monstrous shriek and lashes its tail, felling a row of streetlights above them.

“RUN!” Lucia yells, and pushes Tiffany away from her—a streetlight comes careening down between them and they only narrowly avoid being crushed. She hears Tiffany calling her name through the dust cloud that blooms, but her voice is soon buried in the sound of the mass hysteria that follows; around her, everyone else is slowly coming to the realization that something is terribly wrong. Lucia doesn’t know how they didn’t come to this realization the moment a giant freakin’ _monster_ exploded out of the side of a building, but she doesn’t have time to wonder; she has to get Tiffany and get _away_.

“Lucia! Lucia, where are you?!” Tiffany screams, and Lucia is coughing debris out of her lungs when she sees her friend wandering _closer_ to the white creature.

“Tiff, _no!_ ” she shouts, and lunges at her; the two of them go down in a tangle of limbs and hair and Lucia can actually feel the draft as the creature’s talons slice the air above them. They roll out of the monster’s reach and immediately get to their feet; both of them are bleeding from numerous scratches, but Lucia doesn’t have time to pay attention to that. _“What are you doing?! Why are you running straight at it—“_

“Straight at what? What was that?! I felt something rake the air above us—“ Tiff counters with a terrified expression, and something clicks amidst the riot of Lucia’s mind.

“You can’t see it,” she says slowly, and Tiffany looks at her like she’s gone mad.

“Lucia—you’re not telling me—“

“You can’t see it, can you?” Lucia asks, grabbing her by the shoulders, and Tiffany shakes her head.

“Is this—you’re telling me a _ghost_ —“

“Not a ghost,” Lucia says, turning her head to the— _thing_ , for want of a better word—still causing havoc behind them. “I don’t know what it is, but—“

“Oh my god, I shouldn’t have said that. Lucia, _no_.”

“Tiffany—if I’m the only one who can see it—“

There’s an edge of hysteria to Tiffany’s reply. “Lucia, I may not be able to see the damn thing, but it’s demolished _three blocks_ in literal _seconds_ , there’s nothing you can do—“

Lucia knows this, she _knows_ —Tiffany may not be able to see the thing, but _she can_ , and she can see just how outclassed she is right now. The thing is easily as big as a three-storey building and she’s just a seventeen-year-old girl, not even very tall for her age. She’ll most likely end up crushed under the rubble than stop it, she _knows_ , but she finds it’s not in her to simply run away when she’s the only one with a shot in hell of fixing the situation.

And then someone _screams_ from where the creature is, and Lucia’s decision is made for her.

“Lucia, _no—“_ Tiffany tries to grab her, but she’s too late; Lucia’s off like a shot, running straight for the creature that’s got a _child_ in its claws, and something in roaring in Lucia’s ears as she picks up a heavy piece of debris from the ground and _hurls_.

Years of sports pays off; the concrete block hits the limb that’s holding the child up and it screeches before turning to look straight at her.

“KID!” Lucia yells at the child, reckless, a fire burning through her— “When it drops you, run! OK?”

A part of her mind is telling her she’s gone _crazy_ , but Lucia’s beyond rational thought at the moment; she picks up another concrete piece and chucks it, and this time the monster turns its attention to her fully, dropping the child to swat the projectile away.

“Oh, _shit—“_ Lucia swears, and dives for the child. He falls on top of her bodily, and the breath is crushed out of her lungs—but he’s still alive, if the way he’s screaming at the top of his lungs is any indication, and she feels a wave of relief wash over her.

The relief is temporary, however; a pale white limb comes crashing down on top of them and Lucia pushes the kid off her, shouting at him to run. She doesn’t have time to check if he’s complied; she jumps up to her knees to avoid yet another clawed limb, and searches for something to defend herself with, when—

She dodges, but she’s a little too slow. The next limb comes in contact with her torso and even though it’s barely a graze, she’s sent flying bodily into a fucking brick _wall_ in a nearby alleyway. Her vision splits and blurs and she chokes up blood; she thought those kinds of things only happened in _movies_ , what the hell. She slides down the wall grotesquely; her breathing’s coming in sharp bursts but she thinks she’s fine, nothing seems broken, and she’ll be able to move and run and dodge again just as soon as she can catch her breath. But that things a lot faster than she initially suspected and now it’s right on top of her, raising a single talon with what is almost a leer on its face, and Lucia closes her eyes. Her last thought is that at least the monster decided to chase her and not Tiff or the other boy she rescued—

The pain she’s waiting for never comes. Lucia cracks an eye open and squints into the sun; something’s throwing a shadow over her face and she can’t quite see what it is, aside from a glint of black steel and a burst of brilliant orange.

“God _damn_ ,” the figure in front of her huffs, and Lucia thinks he might be holding a _sword_ — “Australian border security can go rot in fucking _hell_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, this chapter was SO difficult for me to write, you have no idea. I literally rewrote the thing... a grand total of 13 times... and I'm not talking about 'I changed some phrases around', I'm talking about 'deleted and rewrote significant chunks/if not all of it' kind of rewriting. I'm still not happy with it AT ALL, but i'm sick of staring at it, so just. here. take it before i start hating the entire fic jfc


	3. Emergence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ichigo’s going to personally reform the entire Australian Divison Soul Society Border Security Program, even if he has to immigrate and obtain a fucking citizenship in order to do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, in the author’s notes of the first chapter of Cyclical: hahaha I’m probably going to write this really lightheartedly, no worrying about whether each turn of phrase is exactly RIGHT allowed
> 
> Me, writing the third chapter, contemplating a re-write of the entire damn thing: I’M A FUCKING LIAR
> 
> not today though, writing gods, not today. I’m going to post this shit and I don’t give a damn if it sucks. Fuck you and your perfectionism. Not today. 
> 
> I write this stupid fic because of you guys. I’ve been getting so many lovely reviews and tags and comments everywhere I’ve been posting this, and I’m so glad you guys are enjoying it so far. I might not like every word in every chapter, but every chapter is fuelled by the love I have for the readers of this fic. So that being said, I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> (Oh, also, shoutout to that one reviewer on ff.net who made the connection between Kuchiki (rotwood) and Greenwood. That one made me super happy. Also, while I will do my best to respond individually to reviews and comments, please be aware that I will not be able to get to all of them! Thank you!)

 

_*_

 

_I’m falling for your eyes_

_But they don’t know me, yet._

 

 

*****

 

 ****You know that sinking, swooping feeling you get in your stomach when you run into a past lover when you’re least expecting it?

Multiply that by a hundred. Raise it to the power of ten thousand, add a couple of infinities to it, and then divide the whole thing by zero to create an impossible fucking number—

—and you _still_ wouldn’t even come close to literal punch in the gut that was seeing Kuchiki Rukia’s face again.

Even if it isn’t really her. Even if it won’t ever really be her, not anymore.

Look, is it any wonder I ended up almost bisected?

 

*

 

Bureaucracy doesn’t stop, even in the afterlife.

 _Especially_ in the afterlife, Kurosaki Ichigo finds, mired in the clusterfuck that calls itself the Australian Division Soul Society Border Security Program but actually resembles nothing so much as an incompetent pile of burly shinigami he wouldn’t have picked to butter his toast, let alone head a security operation, standing around and attempting to look intimidating. The particular specimen in front of him leafs through his paperwork incredibly slowly, and Ichigo wonders, uncharitably, if he’s literate at all. His hands twitch; any longer, and he’s liable to just whip out his zanpakutous and _fight_ his way through customs, international cooperation be damned. You’d think that if the Australian equivalent of Central-46 had _requested_ your presence, they might waive you through with _less_ paperwork, not _more._

Wistfully, he remembers the last time he’d been to Australia; no customs, no security officers, just him and Renji and Byakuya opening a gate straight over a beach — zero paperwork involved. But Captain-Commander Ise’d gone ballistic over that, screaming that there were _protocols_ and _treaties between nations_ and for the love of _god,_ did none of them ever pick up the Seireitei Shinigami Rulebook ever in their goddamn _careers_ —

Renji’s answer had been ‘no’, Ichigo hadn’t even known a rulebook existed (any rulebook that has had ‘execute Kuchiki Rukia’ as one of its central tenets is not a rulebook he is interested in getting to know) and Byakuya, it turns out, had read it cover to cover but had elected to ignore it in case his sister’s trail went cold.

Ichigo was almost proud of him for that one.

But he stops that train of thought before it can go any further; their last trip to Australia, while vastly preferable to this one in terms of efficiency, is something he has been trying hard to forget had ever happened. Kuchiki Rukia is _gone_ , and he has to do his best to move on, for the sake of his friends and family. For _her_ sake, as well; he’s sure that should she be here, she would smack him upside the head and yell at him for moping about.

So he studiously avoids any memories of his last trip to Australia. Instead, he focuses his ire on the shinigami official in front of him; he places a hand on the hilt of his zanpakutou and sighs audibly. There—if that doesn’t give him a clue, Ichigo doesn’t know what _will._

“Can we hurry it up?” he snaps, his temper finally getting the better of him. “I’ve been here for an hour and a half already. I told you I’ve been _invited_ here by your council, check with the higher-ups if you don’t believe me—“

“—Kurosaki Ichigo?” the official interrupts, butchering his name horribly, but Ichigo doesn’t even care, he’s so relieved.

“ _Yes._ Will you let me go now, or—“

“—If you’re from Japan, why is your hair orange?”

Ichigo can actually hear the _snap_ as the last threads of his sanity sever. His fingers curl around Zangetsu’s hilt, and—

Sirens start blaring throughout the building.

“New South Wales, Sydney, Eastern Suburbs,” a serene voice that contradicts the urgency of the sirens plays over the loudspeakers. “Hollow alert, level two. Menos Grande. I repeat, hollow alert, level two. Menos Grande. All reapers not on duty to lend assistance immediately. I repeat, all reapers…”

The shinigami – _reaper,_ the loudspeaker voice had called them – in front of Ichigo swears, and draws his own zanpakutou; grinning, Ichigo follows suit. Now _this_ was something he could do, something he was good at; and he figures even the Australian Border Security department will be a helluva lot more lenient on him once they see him take down a hollow or two. Expectantly, he looks towards the official and gestures for him to take lead; the official nods at the guards around them, and they scurry into a circular formation, with Ichigo at the center.

“First Binding Spell – Restraint!” they bark, and Ichigo yelps as his hands are forced together behind his back.

“What the fuck?!” he yells, struggling against the kido, but their only response is a quick grim tightening of their mouths. “What the hell d’you think you’re doing?! I’m here to _help_ , you morons, what the fuck happened to _international cooperation_ and _treaties between nations—“_

“Shut up, foreigner,” the official mutters, “you haven’t passed our security check yet, so you’ll stay put here until we deal with this hollow and return. Understand? Don’t let him set foot on Australian soil until I get back and clear him!” The last part is directed to the circle of reapers holding Ichigo back, and they nod.

Ichigo briefly wonders whether the murder of one border security official and six guards would constitute a _threat to international cooperation_ , and whether his status as savior of the world might help him get away with it.

(He comes to the conclusion of _probably not._ )

“Alright,” he says, dropping Zangetsu and schooling his features into reluctant acceptance, “alright, fine, I’ll stay here nice and quiet, so could we undo the kido, then, please?”

“No,” replies one stern-faced reaper, and Ichigo doesn’t even bat an eyelid.

“Pity,” he says, before unleashing his reiatsu in a flat wave that knocks everyone out cold.

“I’m doing you a favour here, buddy,” he mutters as he steps over the prone figure of the official. “You wouldn’t last two minutes against a Menos Grande with that level of reiatsu.”

He picks up Zangetsu, and draws the other one from his hip; the sirens are still blaring, and so is the cool voiceover.

“Sydney, Eastern Suburbs, huh? Guess we just hope my geography’s up to scratch.”

His form blurs, and in the next second, he’s gone altogether.

 

*

 

As it turns out, his geography is dismal.

But Australian reapers’ reaction times? Even worse.

By the time he arrives, the Menos Grande – a Gillian in the process of evolving into an Adjuchas, by the looks of things – has decimated three city blocks, and is trying for a fourth. There are civilians scattered everywhere – either dead or injured, Ichigo doesn’t have time to check – and one more sandwiched between a wall and the hollow, about to be turned into a human skewer. There’s not a single other shinigami or reaper in sight, so when Ichigo takes the only logical course of action and leaps in front of the human, the words that burst from his lips are from the heart.

“Goddamn, Australian border security can go rot in fucking _hell_ ,” he pants, perfectly aware that this entire situation could have been avoided if they’d just let him through a bit earlier, but _no_ —they _had_ to drag it out for an hour and a half, and now he has seven unconscious Australian shinigami, a hole in the side of the Australian Division Soul Society Border Security Building (look, that hollow alert sounded serious, he didn’t have _time_ to look for an exit), several destroyed city blocks, and god knows how many injured humans to deal with. And probably an angry Captain Ise to boot. Ichigo doesn’t even know _how_ he gets himself into this kind of mess.

He huffs, and twists his blade to chop off one of the hollow’s limbs; it rears back and emits a mindless screech that tells him this one is far closer to _Gillian_ than _Adjuchas_. Easy pickings— but he should probably lead it away from populated areas first. He hasn’t fired off a good _Getsuga_ in years, and he really didn’t feel like adding ‘property destruction’ to his already considerable list of international crimes.

But then he throws a look over his shoulder to check that the human’s still alive (stupid move), and things immediately get a million times more complicated.

Air. There’s no air anywhere in his lungs. Ichigo can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t even _think_ — everything around him crawls to a standstill and his entire world narrows down to a single point; the only thing he can register in his mind is that face, that _face_ —

He’d always wondered what she’d look like with long hair.

 _“Rukia—“_ he chokes out, and Ichigo sees himself reflected in those violet eyes that widen at the mention of her name. Her lips move to form a reply, but sounds are strangely muffled at the moment to him; everything seems to be coming from far away and he can’t quite make out what she’s saying. He frowns a little, trying to concentrate; she looks frustrated, small hands jabbing in his direction, and a corner of his mind is exasperated because _of course_ the first thing she does after a century of separation is be _irritated_ with him—

Something white-hot and painful explodes through his midsection, and Ichigo crumples to the ground.

 _“WATCH OUT!”_ the girl screams, and suddenly everything is back with a vengeance— the unearthly howling of the hollow behind him, the acrid smell of blood in the air; the bright flashes of pain along his ribcage that denote torn flesh. Ichigo grits his teeth and reacts on instinct. The wide arc he cuts behind him with Zangetsu slices into the hollow’s other limb, but it only wins him a short reprieve; blood pours from the wound in his side, and he wills himself to ignore it. He’s had worse, far worse, and there are _people_ to protect. He raises his sword in a defiant stance, like the countless other times he’s fought with her at his back, and—

_She’s not Rukia._

The thought slams into him with enough force to throw him off-balance. The hollow lunges and he barely gets his sword up in time. He pays for his distraction; the hollow flings him into the side of a building, and Ichigo hears the sick _crunch_ of bone on bone. Stars dance in front of his vision, and his breath burns in his lungs.

_She’s not Rukia._

Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ of him to forget—hadn’t he moved on from this? Didn’t he tell himself he wouldn’t hold onto the hope of a _memory_ , the hope of an _echo_ — that whatever reincarnation of Kuchiki Rukia that came about thanks to Urahara’s intervention couldn’t possibly be a match for the vitality and vibrancy of _his_ Rukia? Hadn’t he already come the conclusion that if all he was going to get was a pale shade of her former self, then he’d rather remember her as she had been— intense and passionate and dynamic and _alive_ – rather than try to forge a relationship, any relationship, with a girl he would never be able to think of as anything more than her _imitation?_

_She’s not Rukia._

_Just because she has her face_ —he thinks, and then he’s laughing, bitter and hysterical at the same time as he struggles to rise. He’s absolutely _pathetic—_ just because she has her face, he’s already so _fucking_ distracted. Just because she _looks_ like her, all the hopes he thought he’d packed away neatly come rising through the ashes like some sort of twisted firebird that _just won’t die_. Rukia was right— he really can’t do a damn thing properly without her. He can’t even manage to _forget_ her.

He was a fool to think he’d be able to in the first place.

But _fuck_ , now is not the time for this; he can come to terms with the fact that he’s probably going to be miserable for the rest of his life when the rest of his life actually looks like it’ll stretch beyond the next five minutes. He plants one of the Zangetsus into the ground to help him up; his right eye is blinded by blood streaming into it but that’s fine, he doesn’t need depth perception to fire off a _Getsuga_. He can only hope that the reapers in charge of this area aren’t particularly fond of it, and that the buildings around him are clear of people—

_What the **fuck** is she doing?!_

Everything in him comes to a screeching halt as he notices a figure cut in front of him, black hair flying on the wind like the sleeves of a _shihakusho_ as she hoists a piece of rubble onto her shoulder. A scream bubbles up in Ichigo’s throat— _no, what are you doing, get away_ , **Rukia** — but all that comes out of him is a desperate gurgle. She looks back at him, violet eyes so full of concern that it’s unmistakable even at this distance, and sets her mouth into a familiar, determined line that had, once upon a time, both reassured and terrified Ichigo in equal measures.

Reassured, because it meant Rukia had a plan.

 _Terrified_ , because her plans usually involved her being in danger.

“Rukia,” he rasps out, hoarse, because he doesn’t know of any other name for her, cannot see that face and make another name pass his lips— “Rukia. RUKIA, _NO!”_

She doesn’t hear him. She turns her back on him (no no no not _again_ please don’t turn your back to me please don’t make me see your back _again_ —) and, with a defiant shout, throws the concrete block in the hollow’s direction.

Several things happen in lightning-fast succession, but to Ichigo, they occur as slowly as if through resin:

The concrete block hits the hollow square in the face, and it rears up in anger and pain;

The girl’s eyes widen as she starts to turn away, and Ichigo realises she won’t make it in time;

The hollow draws back a clawed hand, clearly aiming to take the girl’s head clean off her shoulders;

A wordless cry rips from Ichigo’s throat as he strains to reach her, her figure blurring with another’s, with shorter hair and a white sword and blood down her back;

The hollow lunges, and the girl raises an arm in an instinctive stance;

And Ichigo jumps in front of her, swords abandoned, running on nothing but sheer desperation and instinct , a chant (a prayer) of _not this time, not this time_ , _not this time_ ringing in his ears.

Blood scatters.

 

*

 

“—you. YOU! Don’t you dare close your eyes, stay with me, _stay with me_ —”

The only thought that crosses Ichigo’s mind is that she’s so fucking persistent she won’t even let him _die_ peacefully.

“Fuck—off—“ he croaks, cracking an eye open and immediately closing it against the blinding sunlight. He hasn’t passed out; but he fucking wishes he has, the entire world painted in various shades of _pain_. He can’t breathe properly, can’t even _move_ properly; but he _has_ to, because he can still hear the sounds of the hollow rampaging in the background and there’s no-one around to stop it but him.

And then he looks down at his body, and finds his bottom half connected to his top by nothing but his _spine._

“You’re alive,” the girl whispers, relief breaking through the raw fear shadowing face. She stands up, and through the haze of his shock and pain, Ichigo sees her turn towards the hollow, hands curling into trembling fists by her side.

He’s suddenly completely alert.

:”What—are you—“ he chokes, and one of his hands go to his waist and start channeling healing _kido;_ but it won’t be enough, he won’t be back to fighting fitness in time. The girl tries to smile at him over her shoulder, tries to be reassuring, but he’s the exact _opposite_ of reassured; he can see the terror behind her eyes. If she’s doing what he thinks she’s doing—

“No, what are you doing, run _away_ —“ he gasps, even as the weak trickle of kido starts stemming his bleeding, trying to connect vessels, to knit together flesh— _faster faster faster it won’t work in time he’s not good enough_ — “don’t, don’t you _dare,_ run away, run _away_ , you _stupid_ human—“

“Save your breath and focus on staying alive,” the girl retorts, even though she looks like she’s about to collapse any second with the way her knees are shaking; her breath is coming fast and shallow and it’s evident that she’s scared. 

“This isn’t your _job!”_ he yells, exasperated, “Run the fuck _away!_ You think you even stand a chance against it?!”

The girl doesn’t even blink before responding to him.

“Saving people isn’t a _job_ ,” she snarls, “it’s a _commitment._ ”

The world tilts. A memory slams into Ichigo, crystal-clear; Rukia standing over him, telling him to make that commitment. To go anywhere, to do _anything_. To even give his life up for them—that  _that’s_ what being a shinigami means.

All the breath in his lungs leaves him in one fell swoop; he feels oddly like laughing. He can’t believe she’s _still_ kicking his ass for being wrong, even after a century of being dead. Ichigo closes his eyes.

“Wait,” he says, and something in his tone makes her turn around and listen.

“You don’t stand a chance against it _now_ ,” he says evenly, “but I know of a way to make it so you _will._ ”

He gestures to his abandoned swords with his chin. “Bring me one of those. It doesn’t matter which one.”

She obeys. “Look, I can see that these are real and probably very dangerous, but I’ve never learned swordplay in my entire life—“

“It’s not for you,” he snaps, snatching Zangetsu—the long one—from her hands. “Alright. I’m going to stab you, and transfer some of my powers to you. Hopefully, that should be enough to tide you over till the Australian reapers actually fucking get their shit together—“

 _“Stab_ me?!” she blanches, immediately backpedaling away from him— “why the hell would you save me just so you can _stab_ me to death?!”

“You idiot, I’m _trying_ to save you! It won’t hurt, it’ll just give you shinigami powers—“

“— _what_ powers? You can’t just expect me to believe—”

 _“— We don’t have time!”_ he explodes; she flinches, but quietens down. “We don’t have time, and I just—I can’t watch you die in front of me, I can’t, _please_ , Rukia, _please_ —“

He’s begging by the end of it, his voice ragged and broken, but Ichigo can’t find it in himself to care. He can’t stop her name slipping from his lips, any more than he can help the tears welling up in his eyes; this girl with her face, human, reaper, whatever she is, whether she’s Rukia’s reincarnation or not—

He cannot watch her die in front of him.

“Please…” he whispers, and something shifts in her eyes; she kneels in front of him and brings the tip of his blade to rest just above her chest.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she mutters, and meets his gaze with her determined one; Ichigo curls his fingers around the grip of his sword and feels the shudder of destiny down his spine. “And who the hell is Rukia? My name’s _Lucia Greenwood._ ”

He freezes, the sword poised just over her heart; the moment shatters as he stares into her violet eyes and reads no recognition in them. Something in him splinters away and dies at the realisation. A lump lodges in his throat, bitter and heavy, and he barely swallows it down.

“Yeah,” he rasps, “Kurosaki Ichigo. Nice to meet you.” And thrusts the blade through her chest.

The city street becomes engulfed in light.


	4. Re-emergence

 

_*_

 

_And with a feeling I'll forget--_

 

_*_

 

It’s a funny feeling, being dead.

You’d think it would make me sluggish, or clumsy. You’d think I wouldn’t be used to the feeling of being lighter than air. You’d think having a sword in my hand and _power_ at my fingertips would have disoriented me, maybe even scared me.

You’d be wrong.

I remember this sword. I remember this power. This—this _warmth,_ coursing through my veins, jump-starting my heart, opening my eyes, shocking me awake— I remember this feeling the way you remember places from your dreams. Absolute certainty you’ve never been here before, coupled with absolute and _intimate_ familiarity with the space.

_I’ve been asleep this whole time._

I remember. I remember. I _remember_ —the feeling of wind in my hair, the sky under my feet, and snow at my back. I remember wielding a sword so graceful it might as well have been dancing. I remember sprays of blood and splinters of bone and the feeling of blade through flesh. The only thing I don’t remember is—

_Why?_

*

She’d gone insane.

That was the only possible explanation as to how she was standing there, completely unscathed, after having shoved a damn _sword_ through her chest. That was the only possible explanation as to why she was now wearing all-black robes and holding a sword in her hand like it belonged there. That was the only possible explanation as to why this felt like a _homecoming._

The monstrous creature – _hollow_ , something in her mind whispers in a voice as fleeting as snow – bears down on her, and Lucia reacts instinctively; she raises her sword and _slashes._ The—the _hollow_ rears back, screeching in pain, and even the bloodcurdling sound of its agony feels familiar. The sword in her hand vibrates; she raises it above her head and a wordless cry tears from her lips.

“AIM FOR THE HEAD!! THE _HEAD!!”_ she hears from behind her, and she looks around to see the orange-haired man— _Kurosaki Ichigo_ , he’d said, and the name sets off an unfamiliar ache in her chest— jabbing a finger in her direction. “The _head_ , goddammit! WATCH OUT!”

She whirls and brings her blade up just in time to meet another one of the hollow’s thrashing limbs; she fends it off and stumbles a few steps backwards from the force of the blow. The tip of her sword plants itself heavily in the ground, and she tugs at it to no avail. The hollow looms above her, something that is almost a leer on its face, and she tugs at the sword harder. An expletive slips from her lips; from behind, she can vaguely hear _Kurosaki Ichigo_ shouting at her, voice rising in pitch and panic with every second. The sword doesn’t budge. A bone-white limb comes crashing down upon her—

At the last second, drawn by something deep within her, she raises a hand and yells something incoherent; a blue-white light explodes out from her palm. It hits the hollow squarely in the face, and she uses its momentary distraction to use both hands and _pull_ at the sword. It comes free reluctantly, and she doesn’t waste a single second more; she lunges straight at the monster and _jumps_ (much higher than she ought to be able to but she won’t complain), bringing the blade down in a vicious arc.

It slices through the grotesque mask like it’s butter. The hollow screeches, before dissolving in a scatter of light. Lucia screws her eyes shut against the blinding glare. When she opens them again, the street before her is clear; there is nothing to suggest that mere seconds ago, she had battled almost to the death with a hell monster ten times her size.

Well, except the huge dents in the buildings, the felled telephone poles and the crushed pavement, that is. Swaying a little, Lucia turns on the spot, an unwilling grin curling the corner of her lips as she realises that she’s survived—

Only to see that _Kurosaki Ichigo_ guy collapsed on the street, very clearly unconscious, possibly dead. Her heart jumps into her throat. No, no, no, no, _no_ , she had told him to hold on, wasn’t he doing some freaky glowy thing to knit himself back together?! She runs back to him and clumsily feels for a pulse, inordinately relieved when she sees his chest rise and fall in shallow breaths. Ah, so not dead, then. Just out cold. That was ok; she could deal with this. It was nothing an ambulance couldn’t fix, probably.

“Lucia!” comes a shaky voice from behind her, and, satisfied that her sort-of saviour wasn’t dead (yet), Lucia turns her head to look for the source.

“Yeah, Tiff—” she replies, but then realises that Tiffany isn’t actually looking at her; her friend is kneeling in the rubble inches from her, cradling an awfully familiar looking head in her lap.

Her stomach plummets.

“Lucia, Lucia please _wake up_ —” sobs Tiffany, and Lucia bolts upright to get a closer look at the body in Tiffany’s arms.

“Sonuva _bitch_ —” she swears, as she sees her own pale, dead face staring back at her.

 

*

 

“Am I dead? Am I fucking DEAD?! Oh god, ok, I’m dead. What the FUCK, Ichigo, you said you weren’t going to kill me—oh god, he's unconscious, he can't even hear me, HOLY SHIT!! I DON’T BELIEVE THIS. I REFUSE TO BELIEVE THIS! Oh for fuck’s sake, what did I expect after shoving a sword through my chest? Alright. Calm down. What do I do now?”

She looks around expectantly, but no answers present themselves. Tiffany continues crying over her dead body, Ichigo continues to be out cold, and she very much continues to be a ghost, for all the attention Tiffany is directing her way. Lucia plants her sword (her _sword_ , she had a _goddamn sword_ , could this day get _any_ more surreal) in the ground and scowls, before approaching her body once more. Up close, she looks perfectly fine, a little bruised up but otherwise not injured enough to merit _death_. She presses a hand to her temple and considers her options.

An idea occurs to her, and tentatively, she reaches out a hand to touch her body; she recoils when she finds she can slide back into it with little to no resistance. That had been what she was hoping for, sure, but it’s still a little disconcerting to see your entire hand disappear into your upper arm.

She takes a deep breath, and slides herself back in. She closes her eyes as she feels her joints line up, and there’s a starburst of colour behind her eyelids as her head aligns.

Then she opens her eyes, and she’s staring straight up into Tiffany’s blotchy face.

“—what am I gonna tell your mu—ACK!”

“Nothing, is what you are going to tell my mother, because I’m not dead. You alright, Tiff?” she sits up in Tiffany’s lap, and cracks her neck joints. Being flung into a wall really does a number on your spine. She shakes out her arms and legs to check that they’re in working order. Everything seems functional, if a little stiff; and then her impromptu reboot is interrupted by gangly arms around her shoulders.

“LUCE!! I thought you were— I thought you were—” Tiffany chokes, and Lucia huffs fondly and pats her friend on the head.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and she means it. “I know it must have been scary. But I’m fine, Tiff, I’m alright. I’m ok.”

She hugs Tiffany a while longer, letting her friend cry into her summer dress, before she pries herself away gently and stands up, taking stock. “Are you hurt, Tiff? And there was that boy who fell on top of me, did you manage to see if he got away ok?”

“I’m fine. And the kid ran away, so he’s probably fine, too. Not too many people came close after the kid. I called the ambulance already, so they should be on their way. Are you alright? You look like hell.”

“Gee, thanks,” Lucia mutters, mind whirring. There’s no sign of the sword that she’d planted into the ground just before slipping back into her body, but Kurosaki Ichigo is still lying there, one of his swords gripped in his hand, the other abandoned a few metres away. Tiffany hasn’t commented on him so far, which meant that he is probably a ghost too; figures that there’d be ghost warriors to fight ghost monsters, really. She is in no mood to answer to any paramedics or cops that would no doubt arrive shortly. It was time to get away.

“Alright,” she says, making a snap decision, “I’m going home, Tiff. And I know you can’t see him, but there's a guy out cold just two meters away, and I gotta take him home with me. Help me sneak him into my room.”

Tiffany blinks.  “What?”

“You heard me.” She hoists Ichigo onto her back, wincing as several bruises make themselves known. “Fuck, for a ghost, he’s pretty damn sturdy, huh? C’mon, Tiff, don't just stand there. Let's go.”

“You're- you're not going to wait for the ambulance or-?”

Lucia looks pointedly at the invisible weight on her back, and Tiffany shuts up and falls into step beside her.

“I don't believe this,” she mutters, as she steals sideways glances at her best friend, struggling to carry an unconscious ghost on her back. The sound of sirens get closer and closer, and the two of them skulk around the slowly gathering crowd, attempting to look innocent. “You're telling me exactly what happened in excruciating detail as soon as we get away from here, ok?”

“Sure,” Lucia grunts, focusing on not dropping Kurosaki Ichigo into oncoming traffic. “If I can figure it out myself,” she adds in a dark aside, and the two of them hobble all the way home.

 

*

 

Sneaking an unconscious ghost into her house hadn’t been the difficult part. Both her parents were out at work, and thankfully her house was only a short bus ride away, even if she had gotten weird looks the whole time there. The real challenge had actually been figuring out how to treat ghost injuries. Normal bandages phased right through him; in the absence of convenient ghost bandages, Lucia had had to be content with using the bandages wrapped around the hilt of his swords. Tiff had pointed out that that was probably unhygienic, but it was either that or let him keep bleeding. She’d take her chances with blood poisoning, at least till he woke up and figured out what to do.

Tiff had demanded answers, and unfortunately, there weren’t a lot of those in supply. Lucia’d described, as best she could, what had happened; the fact that he’d saved her, the fact that he’d stabbed her, and her subsequent transformation and fight. Tiff had listened, wide-eyed, and asked many more questions she couldn’t answer. Who was he? Why hadn’t she seen these ghost monsters before? Was he part of some organisation to fight these monsters, or was he a vigilante? Did this mean she was a superhero now? How could she get in on the club?

“You could try being stabbed,” Lucia’d joked, only to backtrack when Tiff jumped on the idea a little too enthusiastically.

“So what’re you gonna do now?” Tiff had asked, and she’d shrugged.

“Wait for him to wake up, I guess? What else can I do?”

That had been three hours ago. Her parents would be home soon, and _Kurosaki Ichigo_ was showing no signs of consciousness. In an absence of anything to do, she and Tiff were sprawled out on the floor of her room doing homework; if calculus seems prosaic after wielding a sword against a ghost monster, Lucia tries to put it out of her mind. She twirls her pen and shoots periodic uneasy looks at the bright-haired man in her bed, looking entirely out of place against her pink sheets.

She looks down at her hands and relives the fight in her head for the umpteenth time. Her palms tingle, empty of the sword’s weight; it had fit so naturally in her hand, like it belonged there. She remembers the weird blue fire she’d flung at the hollow, and the way all her nerve endings felt aflame the split second before she’d done it. She tries to recreate the feeling, closing her eyes and focusing on… _anything,_ really, reaching out into the darkness for something tangible to draw upon—

Kurosaki Ichigo sits bolt upright.

 _“Rukia—”_ he gasps, and Lucia starts, eyes flying open as she scrambles to his side. He’s trying to fight his way out of the bed, his limbs all tangled up in her sheets, and he keeps reaching behind his back as though he expects to find something strapped there. “Rukia— _Rukia_ —”

“Hey!” Lucia says, reaching her hands out to calm him, “hey. HEY! Ichigo. Ichigo! You’re fine, _you’re fine,_ calm down, y—!”

Her reassurances are cut short as he grabs her wrists and pulls her into a crushing hug; her face ends up pressed against his chest, right next to his heart, and the top of her head is tucked underneath his chin. He’s warm, scalding hot, even; his breathing is ragged, his heartbeat erratic. He’s mumbling ‘thank god, thank _god’_ like a prayer into her hair, and after a few seconds in which it becomes clear he’s not letting go anytime soon, she reaches around gingerly and pats him on the back.

“Yeah, um, it’s going to be ok, we’re all safe, we’re all fine…”

“Thank god, thank _god,_ Rukia—”

“Yeah, about that. You keep calling me that. I’m not Rukia—”

The arms around her drop, and she can breathe properly again. Lucia looks up into his face, which is clear once more; no confusion, no haziness to be seen. Instead, he looks almost horrified as he scrambles away from her, putting as much space between them as possible. “I— shit, yeah of course, sorry, of course you’re not— _fuck.”_

He looks down at his clumsily bandaged torso, and then around the room; the awkward silence is then summarily broken by Tiff saying, loudly, “So I’m guessing he’s awake now?”

Lucia nods, eyes still on the disoriented ghost in her room. “He’s awake. Uh, say hi? Tiff, this is…. Ichigo. Ichigo, meet Tiff.”

Two people stare at her like she’s insane.

“What?” she hisses at the both of them. “What the hell else was I supposed to say?”

“Can she see me?” Ichigo interrupts, pointing his chin at Tiffany.

“No, and don’t point to her with your chin, that’s rude,” Lucia replies on autopilot. Tiff frowns.

“Hey, ghost-dude, if you’re gonna be rude to me just because I can’t see you—”

“Fantastic. Brilliant. So she can’t see me, but she’s aware I’m here? I don’t even think I have a memory wiper. Why the fuck does this always happen to me?”

“ _Memory wiper?!_ Also, sit back down, you’re _injured_ , you moron—”

“— he was gonna wipe our _memories?_ Ghost-dude, I’m not sure how ghost politics work, but I’ll have you know that’s probably fifty different kinds of illegal in the human world—”

“— _shit,_ what time is it? Is that the fucking _sunset?!_ Ise-Soutaichou is going to _execute_ me—”

“Will you _sit back down_ before you bleed all over my floor?! Stop picking at your bandages—”

“— how long have I been here? Fucking hell, did I just become an international criminal—”

“—cia, I swear to god if you let him erase my memories I’ll come back as your own personal haunting after my death—”

“— WILL BOTH OF YOU SHUT THE HELL UP?!” Lucia slams a fist into her desk, and the other two occupants of her room fall into a slack-jawed silence. She winces and rubs her knuckles. “That’s better. Tiff, shut up for a sec while I sort Ichigo out. Ichigo, sit the hell back down, you’re bleeding again. Also, explain.”

“Explain _what?”_ he asks, roundly ignoring her. His gaze lands on his double swords, leaning against the wall in the corner of the room, and he reaches for them.

He collapses back onto the bed in a howl of pain when Lucia’s elbow connects with his midsection.

“OW! WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR PROBLEM?”

“I _DIED_ TODAY, IS MY PROBLEM, YOU JERK! Now, are you gonna sit back down like a good invalid and explain to me what exactly you are, or shall I knock you out again until you feel more cooperative?”

He glares at her, which, to be fair, might just be the natural state of his face, before something gives in his expression and he kicks back with a _huff._ “Alright. Fine. What do you want to know? Make it quick. I've only barely stitched myself together, so unless i get myself to a healer soon you're going to be seeing my innards again.”

Lucia doesn't miss a beat. “Let’s start with what the hell you are.”

Ichigo snorts. “Grim reaper. Next.”

“ _Grim reaper—?!”_

 _“_ I said _next,_ midget, that means you move this questioning along quick smart—”

“Look, you asshole, if you want this questioning to move along quickly then that's entirely on _your_ ability to explain—”

“This is fucking surreal,” Tiffany mutters from the corner, and they both ignore her.

Ichigo rubs his face with a callused hand. “Alright. Fine. _Fine._ You see dead people, right? Ghosts? Well, there's an afterlife where they're all supposed to get sent to. Most people can make their own way there as soon as they die, but some people need a bit of a nudge. That's why we're here. Grim reapers. Happy?”

“Oh, yeah, completely. Except for the GIANT HELL MONSTER I ACTUALLY _DIED_ FIGHTING TODAY. YOU'RE GONNA TELL ME THAT'S A GHOST TOO?”

“Tough luck, that's exactly what I'm gonna tell you. Those nice ghosts you see around town? If they stick around too long they're eventually gonna turn into one of those hell monsters. Just like they could be doing _right now_ as you keep me from my job—”

He stops talking at the stricken look on her face.

“They— it was— it was _human—?”_ she asks, feeling sick to her stomach; the sensation of her sword cutting through the bone mask is suddenly grotesquely vivid in her mind.

“Oh, _shit,_ I fucked that explanation up. I— _yes,_ it was human, but you did them a favour, killing hollows doesn't get rid of them, it purifies them and sends them to the afterlife, look I promise you did a good thing—”

“Alright.” She cuts him off without ceremony, because fresh blood has started to seep through his bandages; it seemed it was Time Up. She would dwell on the guilt later. “You're bleeding again. Before we go, one last thing: you said you'll give me grim reaper powers just before you stabbed me. Does that mean I'm, what? Dead now? A ghost? A grim reaper like you? How exactly does this thing work?”

“Ah.” A hint of pain furrows Ichigo’s brow as more blood stains the  “To be honest with you, I'm not entirely sure myself. It's…. Not exactly a recommended maneuver, what I used on you.”

“Not a recommended maneuver—?” she repeats dryly, before necessity dictates she let it go. “Whatever. It saved my life, so thank you, I suppose. C’mon, let’s get you to a healer, wherever one may be—”

 _“Let’s?”_ Ichigo questions, standing up slowly. Lucia automatically offers an arm for support, but he leans on her desk instead. “As in, the plural ‘we’?”

“Ichigo, you can't go anywhere by yourself in that state. If you think I'm just going to let you waltz off into the night by yourself—”

“Sorry,” he breathes, and before Lucia can ask _what for,_ she feels something disembodied slam into her skull. She only has time to give him an incensed look before black overtakes her vision, and she’s keeling over backwards onto her hardwood floor.

Ichigo catches her before she can hit the ground.  “But that's exactly what you're going to do,” he finishes, laying her down on the bed. Tiffany, he leaves slumped against the wall. He heaves a sigh, and rummages in his pockets for a while; with a noise of relief, he produces a slim white tube which he clicks, twice.

“Here’s hoping,” he says, before collecting his swords and strapping them back on. He leaves through the window, stepping out into the night. For just a moment, his silhouette is visible, backlit against the moon; then it blurs and disappears.

That night, for the first time in several years, Lucia dreams not of snow and ice but of burning suns and supernovas collapsing into black holes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lyrics from Ed Sheeran's Kiss Me, once again. Heartfelt thanks to mizulily for betaing!


	5. Compliance

She's not her.

She's not her.

She's not her—

— isn't she?

 

_*_

 

_Missed calls (10 total): Shiba Yuzu (2), Kurosaki Karin (1), Abarai Renji (1), Arisawa Tatsuki (6)_

Ichigo winces at the display blinking up at him and unlocks his phone with a resigned swipe. He’s perched on a treetop, out of sight of normal and spiritually gifted mortals alike; unless human beings have evolved in the past hundred years to have night vision, he’s pretty damn sure nobody will be interrupting him any time soon. He's less sure about the prospect of discovery by a member of the afterlife, but he figures that if nobody has come for his ass by now, a couple more hours either way isn't going to make a difference.

He stares at the phone in his hands, contemplating who to call first. None of the options are entirely appealing. Still, there was nothing to be gained by hiding out in a tree and just _looking_ at his phone all night.

He groans and hits dial on the first number in his missed calls list. Yuzu isn't exactly what he would call the best option out of the bunch, but he'd rather her than, say, his Vice Captain. He’ll get to her later. _Much_ later.

“Shiba Residence, Ai speaking. How may I help?”

Ichigo stifles a curse at the unfamiliar voice coming down the line. Shit. He'd forgotten about this. Yuzu wasn’t just his baby sister that he could call up at his whim anymore. Hurriedly, he drops his voice two tones and adopts a foreign accent before speaking.

“Uh, yes, uh, is Lady Shiba available to speak—?”

There's a gasp on the other end of the line. “Kuro— Kurosaki-dono? Is that you? Lady Shiba has been trying to get in touch with you all day—”

“Who— who is this _Kurosaki_ you are speaking of, I am not him—”

“Hold on one moment, Kurosaki-dono, I'll put Lady Shiba on the line right away— LADY SHIBA! IT'S KUROSAKI-DONO ON THE LINE FOR YOU! LADY SHIBA—”

Ichigo takes the phone away from his ear and swears. This was exactly what he'd been trying to avoid.

“LADY SHIBA—”

“Ai, did you just say Kurosaki? Gimme that for a sec— hey, firework brain, you are so _screwed_ —”

“Kurosaki? Why’s that little shit calling at this hour of the night—”

“Ganju-niichan, Kuukaku-neesan, be nice! Onii-chan? Onii-chan, is that you?”

 _“Yuzu.”_ Ichigo latches onto his sister's voice with all the fervency of a starved man at Hikifune’s table. “Please, for the love of god, for the love of _me,_ please get yourself a private phone. Blackmail Urahara. Take it out of the Eighth’s budget. I don't care. Just, _please_ let me contact you normally without the whole household knowing.”

The esteemed Lady and Second Head of the newly resurrected Shiba Clan frowns at the phone. “Onii-chan, that's not the important thing here—”

“It's important to me!”

“Onii-chan,” Yuzu says severely, “What have you done?”

“N-Nothing!” he protests. She doesn't buy it.

“Then why did Tatsuki-nee call me three times today demanding to know where you were?”

“... ok, so something might’ve happened,” he admits. Yuzu sighs. “Look, Tatsuki didn't tell you anything about what's going on? You don't know what's happening?”

“Only that you're supposed to be in Australia now, and that clearly something has gone wrong,” she says tiredly. “Look, onii-chan, I'm glad to hear you're alright, but you better call Tatsuki-nee. She was going out of her mind.”

Ichigo starts mentally making plans for his funeral. “Alright, alright. I'll call her right after this so, uh, don't you go calling her to tell her I called, ok? I'll do it myself!”

“I got it, onii-chan. Say, you're not in trouble, are you? You're safe, right?”

He chooses not to answer that. “Thanks, Yuzu. I'll talk to you later. Bye!” he says, and hangs up. He leans back against the trunk of the tree and rubs the back of his neck, before dialing the next number.

“You,” Karin says when she picks up, “are in so much _shit.”_

“Tell me something I didn’t know,” Ichigo retorts. “So, uh, what’s happening over there?”

“That’s my question, moron, you’re the one who’s been mia for 12 hours—”

“Don’t call your older brother a moron,” he snaps. He hears derisive laughter on the other side.

“We’ve been through this before. _You_ are still physically only nineteen, while _I_ lived a full human life and came to the Seireitei aged 76, thank you very much. And even now, my physical age is _23._ What part of that screams ‘you’re older than me’?”

“The part where I was born before you! And I don’t have time for this. What’s been happening? What have you heard?”

Karin snickers. “Nuh-uh. You’re not getting out of calling Tatsuki-nee. I’m not telling you _anything._ ”

“You are a _terrible_ excuse for a sister, I hope Byakuya drowns you in paperwork—”

“Bye, _younger_ brother!” she sing-songs, and hangs up. Ichigo treats the hang-up tone to a hearty round of cursing before trying the next number. He has to call twice before Renji picks up.

“Ichigo, where have you _been—”_

“Cleaved in half, trying not to die, thanks,Renji, how's things over there—”

“Trying not to—?! Ichigo, what the fuck? What the hell’s going on in Australia?!”

For the first time since he started dialling numbers, Ichigo hesitates; the words stick in his throat, and he takes care to search for the right ones. In his quest to think of _anything but_ the girl he has spent the better part of the last 12 hours with, he’d inadvertently called the one person he should have avoided the most if he’d wanted respite from the topic of Lucia/Rukia. The fact that the girl they’d found together on their last trip to Australia had been named _Lucia_ is not lost on him.

 _That’s her,_ Renji had said, _I’d know her anywhere._

There was a time when Ichigo thought the same. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

 _But Renji’s full of shit_ , he reminds himself angrily. Surely there is more than one Lucia in the entirety of Australia, and so what if this Lucia was the same one they'd found twelve years ago? Neither of them are _Rukia._ Is a person still that person when they've lost all traces of their memories, all traces of what made them _them?_ Can this girl, even if she _is_ truly Rukia reincarnated, be called _Rukia_ if she hadn't grown up in the Rukongai, hadn't known Renji and their gang of friends, hadn't met Kaien and Byakuya and known the cold snap of Shirayuki in the back of her mind? What makes a person who they are? What makes Rukia _her?_

 _“Hey, asshole!”_ Renji snaps, and Ichigo shoves his philosophical dilemmas away for another time. “You call me up in the middle of the night after disappearing for 12 hours, ask me what the hell is going on, tell me you've been trying not to _die_ and now you're not gonna answer any of my questions—”

“Sorry, sorry! It's been a long day. I ran into some trouble with Australian border security and a hollow, and I've lost contact with the Australian shinigami. I just need a way to get back in contact with them.”

Renji snorts. “That sounds suspiciously tame compared to the amount of angry calls Ise-Soutaichou has been getting.”

“Look, throw me a bone, would you?” Ichigo says, irritated.  “I’ll… go be diplomatic or something with the Australian shinigami, I don't know. Point is, I can’t fix whatever mess it is I left behind if I can’t actually get in contact with them.”

Renji considers this. “You can't find one on patrol or something?”

“Not a damn soul. Plenty of plus that need konso, but shinigami are pretty thin on the ground.”

There's a long low whistle, full of static. “Man. I knew we were lending you out because Australia had a shortage of viable shinigami, but it's that bad?”

“I don't know, Renji, maybe I can find out if you'd _actually give me some useful information!”_

Renji chuckles in an infuriating way. “Alright, alright. I'll go tell Ise-Soutaichou you've checked in. Stay tight and someone’ll probably call back with instructions.”

“Thanks. Sooner rather than later would be appreciated because I kind of got injured and tried healing it myself.”

Ichigo grits his teeth against the roar of laughter. “You tried kaido on yourself? Ichigo, you _know_ that shit knocks you out cold—”

“I don't want to hear that from someone who can't even heal a papercut!” he responds hotly. So what if he tended to pass out after performing any sort of healing kido? It was better than dying from your injuries. Which was what was gonna happen to Renji if _he_ ever got injured on the battlefield.

Then something occurs to him, and he forces himself to adopt a nonchalant tone to broach the subject. “Oh, by the way, is there any way to get your powers back from someone if you've accidentally given a bit of them to someone else?”

The hearty laughing on the line cuts off abruptly.

“... why do you ask?” Renji says, suddenly serious. Ichigo licks his lips.

“.... No reason. Just— just curious.”

“Ichigo, what have you done—”

“Absolutely nothing. Look, never mind, it was just idle curiosity—”

“Like bullshit it is,” Renji snorts. “Fine, then, if you don't want to tell me. Your fucking skin on the line. As far as I know, short of killing them or shattering their hakusui and saketsu, there's no way to get your powers back.”

Ichigo was afraid of that. “Got it. Hey, while you're at it, do you mind telling Tatsuki that I called and—”

“Oh, no. You're not worming out of that one. I don't want to get into a fight with your fukutaichou on a good day but on days like this? The entire Shiba clan couldn't pay me enough to go near her. You're on your own.”

“What kind of a friend are you?!” Ichigo yells, and Renji just sniggers.

“A smart one. Later,” he says, and hangs up. Ichigo only just represses the urge to throw his phone at the ground. Instead, he takes a deep breath and dials a number not on his missed calls list.

 _It's not like I'm procrastinating calling Tatsuki,_ he tells himself, _I actually need to make this call._

But in true Urahara fashion, the only thing that greets him after three unsuccessful calls are three annoying ‘leave a message!’ responses, a different one each time. Groaning, Ichigo shoves his phone back into his pocket and contemplates the situation at hand.

 _Lucia._ The girl with her face who may or may not have been Rukia, the girl who saw ghosts.

… The girl he may have accidentally just doomed to death by reaper, if he was any precedent. Is creating a substitute shinigami a class-A crime in Australia, too? Ichigo feels like screaming. Instead, he casts his mind back to his own abrupt transformation; what had happened then? He'd been given powers, he'd wasted that Hollow that had messed with his family, and then he'd fallen unconscious and proceeded to think everything was a bad dream until Rukia'd shown up in his class—

 _Ah._ In short, he would have gone on his merry way thinking everything was a dream if _Rukia_ hadn’t shown up. He could work with this. He'd already erased Lucia’s memories; even if the wiper hadn't worked for some reason, it wouldn't matter. Experienced shinigami could shed their gigai without a gikongan, but without him to push her soul out of her body, there was nothing Lucia’d be able to do on her own. He could simply leave things be, and she'd never be able to become shinigami again. What the Australian reapers didn't know wouldn't hurt them, either.  Ichigo could essentially ignore the entire incident, and nothing would happen.

He tries not to analyse why this conclusion bothers him more than it should, and files the whole situation away into a mental drawer marked ‘resolved’ just as his phone starts ringing. He checks the caller ID, and swallows hard.

It’s his Vice Captain. Ichigo briefly contemplates applying for asylum in Australia, before remembering the amount of border security involved. Groaning, he picks up the phone.

“Hi, Tatsuki, look, I can explain…”

 

*

 

Three hours, one verbal chew-out, and several healers later, and Ichigo feels almost back to normal. Tatsuki’s tirade had been interrupted thirty minutes in by a much more _reasonable_ member of the Australian version of Gotei-13, and Ichigo finds, to his great relief, that they've apparently reviewed the security tapes and have cleared him for any criminal charges leveled against him. Of course, they're charging Commander Ise for damages (he'd winced at that), and they were putting him on probational duty for the next month, but all things considered, Ichigo reckons he's been let off incredibly easy.

Which, of course, immediately makes him suspicious. He and good luck are most definitely not on speaking terms about 95% of the time.

“Well, I _say_ probational,” the woman— she'd introduced herself as Mononeeta— sighs in a tone of voice that Ichigo is all too familiar with. _Overwork._ “The truth is, even with a halved radius of work, you'll be in charge of an incredibly large area of land. As I'm sure you must have noticed already, we're not exactly the most well-manned reaper taskforce in the world. And you're, well, frankly speaking, we _did_ ask for someone with as much spiritual pressure as possible, but you are beyond even our wildest estimations. We're discussing giving you a much larger radius than we'd planned for when your probation is lifted.”

“Not a problem,” he replies, poking at his now much more expertly applied bandages. “I could use the space and distraction, to be honest. I'll be glad to help any way I can.”

_Please, please, please keep me busy. Busy enough that I don't have time to think about the substitute shinigami I created today._

“I’m glad to hear it.” Mononeeta visibly relaxes. “You'll get a day off to recover from your injuries and to orient yourself with our system— oh, please don't look at me like that, Benjamin was a special case, I promise we're more competent in other areas— and after that you'll be straight on duty. It shouldn't be very different from what you did in Japan. Eliminate hollows, perform purification for plus.”

“So Benjamin was his name—?” Ichigo mutters, remembering the reaper that had tried to detain him at border security. “He alright—?”

“More than alright.” Mononeeta snorts. “He tried to make a case for battery at the meeting, but we all saw the tapes. Well, OK, so it _was_ technically an ‘unprovoked attack’, but we figure in light of the fact that he'd be dead had he gone, he should be thanking you instead.”

Here, she hesitates a little. “In fact, it seems you came very close to dying yourself. I know the alert was for a level two, Menos Grande, but if it gave _you_ this much trouble….?”

“Oh— oh! No, this was— uh, the hollow was fine, I was just— a little distracted—”

Mononeeta looks skeptical. Ichigo improvises wildly.

“The— the sun on the beach, you see— glare—”

“Well, it's true the sun in Australia is particularly strong.” She seems unconvinced, but has evidently decided to move on; Ichigo swallows a sigh of relief. “Anyway, please focus on recuperating, Mr. Kurosaki. We'd like to have you on duty a.s.a.p.”

“Duly noted.”

Mononeeta nods and moves away; at the last second, Ichigo calls after her:

“Uh, hey? Sorry— what was your name—”

“Mononeeta.”

“Mononeeta. Right. Idle curiosity, but, uh, if you're so understaffed, have you considered any other options of recruiting? Say, like, creating substitute shinigami?”

The moment the question leaves his lips, Ichigo knows he misspoke. Mononeeta’s tired eyes become fierce, and she storms right back up to him to grip his shoulder with a tense hand.

“Substitute reapers—? Do you know something about how to create them—?”

“Not— not at _all—_ I was just wondering—”

“Are you absolutely sure? You haven't heard anything to do with substitute reapers—”

“No!”

“— if you know _anything_ about substitute reapers,  if you hear _anything_ at all, you _must_ tell us about it, Mr. Kurosaki. It's of the utmost importance—”

“I— I was only just asking—”

As quickly as she had fired up, Mononeeta deflates.

“Of course. My apologies. But it really is important for us, you understand. Matter of national security. So please be sure to tell us if anything of the sort happens.”

“Of— of course.”

Ichigo forces himself to smile, and after a short moment, Mononeeta is placated. She leaves him with a nod and a wave. Ichigo waves back till he’s sure her reiatsu has faded away a safe distance, before he drops his hand like a stone.

_It's a matter of national security—_

Fuck.

 

*

 

After the fiasco with Mononeeta, Ichigo had been very careful not to even _think_ about the newly minted substitute soul reaper walking around in the Australian suburbs somewhere. Unfortunately, that was easier said than done when he'd had nothing to occupy his mind for the entire day but settling into his new quarters and familiarising himself with a map of his assigned area. On multiple occasions, he'd caught himself wondering what Rukia— _Lucia, goddammit, her name was Lucia—_ was doing at that moment in time. Probably attending school, judging by how old she'd looked; but then again, she was so tiny that even when she'd been a 150-year-old death goddess she'd often passed for younger than him—

Aaaaand there he was, doing that again. Rukia wasn’t Lucia. He had to stop thinking like this. It would only end badly.

Well, that had been yesterday; today, he'd finally been given something to do. Namely, patrols. He'd thrown himself into his duties with enthusiasm, rising at the crack of dawn to tackle the day, but as the hours went by he'd become increasingly bored. It wasn't just _shinigami_ that were thin on the ground in Australia; it simply wasn't a rich land _spiritually._ That meant no Hollows, and not nearly enough ghosts to keep him busy, even with the ridiculous amount of land he needed to cover. In Japan, the air was thick with reishi wherever he went, but here, he could finally understand why Vice-Captain and above were required to dial down their power output to 20% while in the gensei. That amount of concentrated reishi in such a spiritually barren land would be a goddamn beacon for hollows.

 _Ishida would_ hate _Australia,_ he thinks vaguely, just before his soul pager goes off with a vengeance.

He hardly needs the warning. The murky black reiatsu of the Hollow is a signal flare, and even with his patchy reiatsu tracking he can feel it from across the city. Excited, Ichigo unshoulders Zangetsu and slips into shunpo.

It only takes him a few seconds to reach the source of the commotion; a school, of all things. That was bad, but not catastrophic; he was fairly certain he’d be able to lead the Hollow away. He unleashes his reiatsu, trying to tempt the hollow away from the kids, but it's surprisingly resistant. The Hollow spares him a glance before refocusing its attention on the schoolchildren, and Ichigo curses.

“C’mon, you stupid hollow, come get me, there's nothing for you there—”

Wrong. As if the world itself is hell-bent on contradicting him, a student darts out from the throng, arms waving as she ushers the other kids behind her. Ichigo’s heart misses a beat when he recognises her panicked voice.

“Come on, _move!_ Do you _want_ to die? Is that it?”

“Why the fuck is _she_ here?” he snarls, jumping into action. He swings Zangetsu at the Hollow’s head but it ducks out of the way, and now there's nothing blocking the girl from having a clear line of sight to him.

_“You—!”_

“Busy!” he yells, cleaving Zangetsu in a vicious arc; the Hollow attempts to block it with an elongated nail, but loses the entire hand in the process. It howls in pain and the rest of the students finally seem to get the memo. They still couldn't see what was going on, but Hollow cries triggered flight responses in about 99% of the human population. The crowd starts scattering, and Ichigo gears up; he needed to finish this quickly, for everyone’s safety.

 _“Get out of my way!”_ he roars, and Lucia takes the hint; she performs a neat dive-and-roll out of his path, and Ichigo refines his aim.

_“Getsuga—”_

Behind him, he doesn't see Lucia snap her head up, her eyes widening with something like _recognition_.

_“— Tenshou.”_

Black and red light up the sky.

 

*

 

Overkill? Maybe. But hell if he hadn't needed that; Ichigo feels the reiatsu pumping through his veins and something seems to lift off his chest. He hasn't been able to just _destroy_ things in a while, and picking through crowds and buildings while fighting got old very quickly. Maybe Kenpachi was onto something, and it was therapeutic to duke it out with someone to the death every so often.

His next thought is that he needs to see a shrink, a.s.a.p.

Before he can make a getaway and book that appointment, though, someone grabs him by the collar of his shihakushou; he tips his head back and closes his eyes in defeat. He already knows who it is.

“You—” There’s zero confusion or hesitation in Lucia Greenwood’s demeanor, which would mean that the memory eraser didn't take. Ichigo’s not even surprised. With his luck, he should just assume nothing works for him the way it’s supposed to, ever. “Are you— are you okay? Have you been healed? You didn't get hurt just then, did you?”

“No,” he replies, long-suffering.

“Good,” she says, and then she stomps on his foot.

 _“Ow—_ woman, what the _fuck—?!”_

“ _Memory erasers,”_ she parrots, sickeningly sweet, “ _are fifty different kinds of illegal in the human world._ Oh, and you know what else is illegal? _Attacking someone in their own house and leaving them passed out, you jerkwad!”_

“When human laws cover fighting protocols with giant hell monsters, I'll consider abiding by them.”

“Ghosts don't have a concept of decency, then? Is this any way to treat someone who stopped you from bleeding out on the street?”

“As I seem to recall it, the reason I was bleeding out on the street was because I was trying to save your ungrateful ass from being skewered _first.”_

Ah. He had her there. She removes her hands from his shihakushou slowly.

“And I thanked you for that,” she says, but she's clearly still feeling guilty. Ichigo doesn't like that expression on her face. It reminds him of an expression that Rukia had worn far too often for his liking.

“Yeah, well, no big deal. I've already forgotten it. We done here?”

“Not a chance.” It seems like her guilt over the first hollow only stretches so far. Her eyes narrow and she grabs onto the sleeve of his uniform again, as if she's worried he's going to bolt given half the chance. (She's not wrong.) “But let’s— let's go somewhere else to discuss this.”

She gestures vaguely behind her, and sure enough, Ichigo sees some of her peers giving her odd looks. The thought hadn't even occurred to him, how bizarre Lucia might look talking to thin air, even though it had been a regular concern for him once, too.

(It had been far too long since he'd been human.)

He considers just ditching her and running, but if memory erasers weren't going to cut it, he had to fix this situation somehow. He sighs and nods, gesturing for her to lead the way. She grabs his wrist and drags him behind her to a destination only she knows.

He doesn't let himself think the nostalgic thought that it was _almost like the old times._

 

_*_

 

She takes him to a park. For some reason, this throws him. He'd been expecting a building rooftop of some sort. The play equipment is abandoned at this hour, and she climbs to the highest platform, the one where the slide starts. She sits, cross-legged, and he squats on the platform just below the one she’s on, feeling intensely out of place amidst the bright plastic.

“Tiff doesn’t remember anything, by the way,” she says frostily. Ichigo sighs. So at least _one_ thing had gone the way it was supposed to.

“Good. Neither should you, by the way,” he retorts, and the dirty look she throws him is Kuchiki-worthy.

“Too bad. So now that you can't get rid of me, are you going to explain things _properly?_ What happens to me now? Am I dead? Am I not dead? Do I get to join your little hell monster fighting club?”

“No, yes, no. Look, nothing happens to you now. The powers were a temporary thing. You don’t…. You don’t have them anymore. You just go on with your life like you used to.” A lie, but she didn’t need to know that.

Lucia raises an eyebrow. “I don’t have the powers anymore?”

“Nope. They’re gone, kiddo. No more monster fighting for you.”

“Huh.” She uncrosses her legs and scoots over. She’s right up in his face and Ichigo would back away if he wasn’t instinctively aware that that would be a sign of weakness that she’d exploit to hell and back. “Then why can I still do _this?”_

She snaps her fingers, and a tiny, glowing ball of reiatsu manifests between them, before exploding in a shower of sparks.

Ichigo opens his mouth, thinks of nothing to say, and shuts it.

“So, I have a proposition,” Lucia says, looking inordinately smug. “Let me help you.”

“No,” he snaps on autopilot. This was bad— this was _very_ bad. How the hell was he going to shut her up now? No, no, even before that— how the hell had she managed to work out, in the span of a day, to manipulate the new reiatsu inside her to _that_ degree of precision? That was the beginnings of kido that he’d just seen; enough to earn her instant admission into Shin’ou Academy. It wasn’t something a human girl with zero previous interactions with shinigami could do.

 _Rukia’s always been good at kido—_ he remembers, before squashing the thought down. This was not the time.

“No?”

 _“No,”_ he repeats, placing a hand on the hilt of his sword. He tries to make his expression as menacing as possible. There was nothing for it— he’d just have to scare her into keeping quiet. “Do you know what the protocol is for human girls who retain power that they _shouldn’t_ be retaining?”

She doesn’t look remotely menaced, which doesn’t do much for Ichigo’s confidence. “Do tell.”

Ichigo lets black bleed into his sclera. His smile curves up a little more than it probably humanly should.

“We _kill them.”_

She tips her head to the side, scrutinising him with calm eyes. “You know, I don’t think you will.”

Ichigo splutters. “You don’t know my life! I could kill you a hundred different ways in the next thirty seconds—”

“I don’t doubt that you _could,”_ Lucia clarifies, smirking. “I just don’t think you _will.”_

“You’re awfully confident for someone who’s about to have a sword at their neck—”

“So, do it.” She shrugs. “You wouldn't have gone to all that trouble to save me just to kill me now.”

In response, Ichigo draws his sword and lunges at her.

He sees her eyes widen fractionally in the instant before his arm goes around her waist, and allows himself a grim moment of satisfaction. Then Zangetsu is clashing with a scaled tentacle in the space where she'd been just a millisecond ago, and Ichigo forces himself to concentrate on the fight.

The pager at his hip goes off belatedly. “Fuckers! One hundred years and they still can't make soul pagers that work!”

 _“Run!”_ he adds to the stupefied girl, hanging half-on-half-off the play equipment.

“But what about you—”

“This is my job, not yours! Scram—”

Another tentacle comes for her, and Ichigo blocks it with his other sword; Lucia seems to realise the severity of the situation, and takes off. But instead of turning its attention back to Ichigo, the Hollow makes to follow her. Ichigo doesn't understand; he's not hiding his reiatsu anymore, and even currently capped as it is at 20%, it should be more than enough to make the Hollow pay attention. Sure, Lucia can see ghosts, which means she's got _some_ reiatsu, but by comparison he should be a far more rewarding target for the Hollow—

 _Except._ Realisation hits Ichigo like a freight train and he hastily casts out for Lucia’s reiatsu. He can’t feel any of her own, but there’s _plenty_ of his, burning like a furnace just under her skin. In the desolate spiritscape of Australia, she might as well have thrown up a flashing neon sign that said EAT ME.

Idiot. _Idiot._ Lucia was walking Hollow bait, and _it was all his fault._

“Fuck!” Ichigo doesn’t actually swear all that often, but ever since arriving in Australia, he feels it’s been abundantly justified. Lucia throws a look back his way, and it costs her; the Hollow trips her up and she falls on her face.

 _“Fuck!”_ Ichigo’s had it up to _here_ with the cosmic unfairness that is his life. He doesn’t have time for some bullshit lower-level Hollow. He skewers it from behind, feeling viciously gratified at the sensation of steel through bone, and offers Lucia a hand up as it dissolves into thin air.

She takes it shakily. “See? Knew you couldn’t kill me,” she jokes, but there’s not much mirth in it.

Ichigo scowls. The only other way to take his powers back from Lucia apart from killing her was destroying her _saketsu_ and _hakusui;_ but he knows from experience how painful and traumatic that could be. There was no guarantee that she’d survive the procedure, either. Lucia was stuck with her— _his_ — powers, either till she died or he could figure out a way to safely get them back. And with Urahara out of the picture, who the hell knew when that might be?

It didn't look promising. Ichigo curses a little more under his breath, before turning to the girl who is dusting her knees off like nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.  

“You alright?”

“More or less.” She’s a little paler around the eyes, and there’s red grazes on her knees, but otherwise, she looks unharmed. “You?”

“Fine.” They scrutinize each other a little while longer, both a little unsure of what to make of the other.

“You still wanna…. _help_ with this monster fighting gig?” Ichigo asks eventually; even though he phrases it as a question, it’s pretty much the only recourse left for them. If Lucia couldn’t be rid of his powers, and they were going to keep attracting Hollows to her, the only thing he could do is either tail her around and protect her himself for the rest of her life—

— or he could teach her to fight.

She fires up at that. _“Yes.”_

“Why?”

She seems stumped by the question; she blinks, and her hand gestures vaguely. “Well, uh, you know—”

“This isn’t a fun day job. This isn’t some sort of live-action videogame where you earn points for every monster you kill. You could die— you could _kill._ You already have, once, and you were horrified at the idea. Why do you want to keep going?”

“It’s _exactly because of that_ that I want to help,” she snaps back. “How do I— how do I go back to everyday life after knowing— all that? After knowing that the nice ghost on the corner of the street and the seven-year-old ghost that comes to our garden sometimes and the elderly grandmother ghost that likes to sit under the shade of my local park might get turned into one of those— those _things_ that you keep fighting? That they’ll meet their end impaled on a swordpoint? You said there was a way to send them on before— all that. Before they get turned into monsters. I’m not— I’m not the kind of person who can just ignore all that just because it’s not happening right in front of me. If there’s a way, then— I want to help.”

_Whether it’s in front of you or far away, it doesn’t change the fact that they are being attacked! A shinigami has to treat all spirits equally. You cannot conveniently save those you can see, those you can reach!_

He closes his eyes and lets out a slow breath through his mouth. Different, _different,_ but so achingly the same— the same face, the same voice, the same demeanour. The same determined expression, fervent with her convictions. Mental flower petals fall to the floor; _she’s Rukia, she’s not Rukia, she’s Rukia, she’s not_ —

He was going to regret this. He was going to regret this _so hard._

But what other choice did he have?

“O.K,” he acquiesces through gritted teeth. “I’ll teach you to fight. To do this _shinigami_ gig properly. But in return, one condition.”

“Name it.”

“You don’t _ever_ use your powers when I’m not around, or when I haven’t explicitly given you permission. You don’t tell _anyone_ that all this is happening, either. Got it?” That would take care of the need for secrecy for now. It was a temporary stop-gap, but it was better than nothing.

Lucia looks as though she might complain, but Ichigo hits her with his best glare and she wisely decides to pick her battles. “Done.”

“Fine. We’ll start tomorrow, then. Uh, you’ve got school, right? After school, then. 5pm? You pick a place. I’ll be able to find you.”

“Got it. Is there anything in particular I should be bringing to these sessions or…?”

“No. I’ll prepare everything. Just make sure you don’t have anyone tailing you, or anything.”

“Right.”

“Yeah. Well, if you haven’t got any other pressing questions, I’m going to take off—”

She stops him with a hand around his wrist. “Wait— wait. How do I know you’re not just abandoning me and that you actually _are_ going to turn up tomorrow—?”

Ichigo doesn’t know what instinct it is that draws him to rummage around in his shihakushou at that question; he doesn’t understand why his hand closes around that particular artifact, wooden edges worn smooth after years in his possession. He understands even less why he hands it to _her_ ; a girl he hardly knows and has only just met. Practically, the item has very little value; Lucia frowns a little as she takes it from him. But it is, perhaps, one of the most important material items he owns, just after his swords.

“What’s this…?” Lucia asks, fingers tracing the patterns carved into the wood quizzically.

“It’s a substitute shinigami badge,” he replies, and she visibly starts. He can _see_ the questions teeming in her gaze, suddenly relentless on him, but despite her palpable curiosity, she does not ask a single thing. “It’s— it doesn’t look like much, but I like it. I’ll want it back off you tomorrow, so you keep it as collateral for now. Happy?”

“.... it will be acceptable,” she says primly. He nods.

“You should get back to class, then,” he says, suddenly remembering that she’d more or less run out on the school day. Lucia shoots him a look as if to say ‘Really?’ but he won’t budge on this. Schoolwork was important. “Won’t you get in trouble?”

“I suspect Tiff will be covering for me.” She slips the substitute badge into her bag and smooths the creases in her skirt. “But your concern is duly noted.”

He groans. “Just get going, you.”

“... I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” she says, and despite everything, she looks a little uncertain; Ichigo waves her off.

“Yeah. I’ll find you.”

“You better.”

“Do you ever let anyone else get the last word?”

“Not if I can help it.” She grins, and sprints off; Ichigo watches her go, doing his best to keep her figure from blurring into another from his memories. He doesn’t like seeing her back. The flower petals keep falling, _she’s Rukia, she’s not Rukia, she’s Rukia, she’s not—_

As he tears his eyes away from her retreating figure, the last petal falls to the ground like a revelation he’s not quite prepared to confront; Ichigo shakes his head, and starts making his way back to his quarters. 

He only hopes—can only hope, really—that he knows just what he’s gotten himself into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clocking in at 6000 + words and 20 pages, this is almost double the length of the other chapters. What can I say? I really like writing in Ichigo's pov. Don't expect the other chapters to be this long in the future, though. This chapter pretty much drained me. :') My thanks go out, once again, to mizulily for the enthusiastic betaing and the heartbreaking ending sequence :')


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